Imperfect Men
by Era Yachi
Summary: The body of a young petty officer is found in Theater Park. Then it explodes. One of the team becomes a victim. Now more body bombs are showing up, threatening his own people, and Gibbs in on the hunt for answers.
1. The Park

**_Imperfect Men_**

**Summary: **The body of a young petty officer is found in Theatre Park. Then it explodes. One of the team becomes a victim. Now more body bombs are showing up, and Gibbs in on the hunt.

**AN:** If the technobabble makes no sense, it's because my knowledge of computers is limited to…well, a few things.

Also, the text in italics is exactly what you think it is. If you've seen the show, that is. If you haven't…why…are you here?

This will contain some usual Tiva, etc. what you'd find in the show...I'm not a shipper, really. The main focus of this fic is the team's relationships, not series of love stories. Ducky's closeness with the team will stand out, as well as a lot of Gibbs under pressure handling a city-wide threat. That said, there is no slash, or notable OCs (other than the usual tossed-in suspect, witness, etc.). I'm going to write this as though it were a long, long episode. The overall theme will be, as noted above, friendship, serious crime, vengeance and suspense. I'm putting this all in my author's note, because I know many a reader appreciate knowing what they're headed into before they dive into a story. Like reading the foreword of a novel. Or something. Let's just begin...

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

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Chapter One: The Park

-

_As he stood up, Gibbs turned his head to survey the faces of the crowd with a deadpan expression. Somehow, he knew the killer was right there._

Murder had arrived in Theatre Park.

One glance at the crime scene was all it took to put Gibbs in a wretched mood. Sixteen minutes ago, someone had tried to tap into Abby's computer from outside the lab. He didn't care if the hacker got in or not—Abby was hysterical and overtired, too juiced up on Caf-Pow! to make any sense and he had to send her home to get some sleep. Now he and DiNozzo were now standing next to a body with a slightly disoriented medical examiner crouched at their feet, and he still hadn't had his coffee.

"That's all, I'm afraid," Dr. Donald 'Ducky' Mallard announced, yawning greatly thereafter. "Other than these lacerations in her abdomen and bruising around her jaw, there doesn't appear to be any more external injuries. Judging by the amount of blood and the severity of the wounds, I think it's safe to say that she died of massive internal bleeding. There's enough blood on the ground to indicate that she died here." He paused a moment, hovering over the corpse with a dour expression. "Yes, whoever decided to cut up our poor petty officer was either very thorough…or very, very disturbed."

He was referring to the state of the victim's body. Petty Officer Amy Simpson had been cut up inside the public park area sometime during the night, shirtless, aside from the heavily bloodstained bra. Of course, she had to be moved to autopsy before any circumstantial evidence could be logged and...it was six in the morning—the "body movers" were late, and probably wouldn't be ready for hours.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said without so much as a glance towards the younger agent. "We're gonna need photos. Call Abby back. "

Agent Tim McGee approached them from behind, keying in on the conversation. "But you just sent her home—"

"Tell her I'm sorry," Gibbs snapped, rounding on McGee with no trace of humor in his eyes, voice or other form of expression.

"Right. Sorry. I mean—yes. Boss." McGee winced. Mornings were not his thing.

"Boss, I could call Abby if the probie here—"

"_Photos_, DiNozzo."

"Yes, boss."

DiNozzo and McGee exchanged grimaces. The senior field agent of the two gripped the camera tightly and moved away. He circled around the corpse and the squatting medical examiner, before starting his routine. He took exactly three photos before his curiosity overrode the motor functions in his mouth and he lowered the lens.

"There's blood on her hands," he observed, unaware of the non-criticality of the statement.

Ducky glanced over at him, just as McGee snapped his cell shut and wandered over. "Well, clearly I'm no expert in this field, Agent DiNozzo, but I would assume that Petty Officer Simpson was still mobile while she was bleeding to death."

Anthony's cringe was not dissimilar from the many he had pulled after irritating Gibbs.

"Why did no one hear her scream?" Gibbs asked from his place by the NCIS vehicle. He had been eyeing the growing crowd beyond the yellow tape until now, sinking deeper into a black mood that would ultimately be used against his team. He wasn't truly asking the question, because he already knew the answer. The question was meant to interrogate his subordinates, to make them think about the situation from a non-linear perspective. That was a textbook explanation, anyway. Gibbs just liked to make them guess.

After a brief silence, he turned back to the gathering around the body with a creased brow. "I'm waiting."

"Uh…" McGee looked at Ducky, who simply raised his eyebrows and went back to work. "Because…she was gagged. Killer could have taken the gag out after the murder."

"Why?" The question was simple. Gibbs now stood four feet away from them.

"That's a good question, probie," DiNozzo looked up from another snapshot. "Dead people don't scream."

A hand came flying at DiNozzo's head and slapped him from behind. "Ahh!" Anthony cringed, and directed a glare at McGee. The MIT graduate pretended to ignore him.

"There are no marks on her wrists or ankles to indicate she was in captivity," Ducky pointed out, gently lifting one of the victim's uninjured arms. "Oh, hello. I think I just found our murder weapon."

The 'murder weapon' was an Exacto knife, small enough to be hidden underneath the bloody wrist of the young woman. The examiner took a moment to explain that the wounds in the young woman's stomach were messy and deep, suggesting there had been no careful deliberation when it came to her murder. Someone had taken this knife to her in a hurry, and the jumble of clotted blood and tissue that was now her stomach was their first indication of the murder's psyche.

"He was vicious, Jethro," Ducky finalized, sounding mostly disgusted himself. "What you are looking for is a sociopath. Though I can't say much more than that without an autopsy."

As he stood up, Gibbs turned his head to survey the faces of the crowd with a deadpan expression. Somehow, he knew the killer was right there.

* * *

-

_Tony covered his face with one hand, feeling the horror overcome him…_

"DiNozzo!"

Anthony leapt from his dream world into the vat of reality at the sound of Gibb's voice. His leg twisted painfully as he tried to pull it, along with its partner, off of his desk. After nearly falling out of his chair, he purposely straightened himself out and looked across the office at the older agent as he walked past.

"I'm awake," he lied, blinking in retaliation to the sudden onslaught of light. "What's…ow…"

"Don't worry, Tony—McGee and I took care of that BOLO on the victim's stolen truck that Agents Gibbs asked for. I've just finished talking to _all_ five of the witnesses who discovered crime scene," Ziva put forth mildly from her own desk. "Yes, including the twins."

DiNozzo winced and cursed to himself. He'd made special plans for those twins. Special 'Anthony DiNozzo' plans…

"Somebody found us another witness," Gibbs interrupted his thought, slapping the folder that he had been carrying down on Tony's desk before sauntering back to his corner, steaming coffee in hand. "Find her and bring her in."

Tony squinted down at the name and picture on the first page of the folder, feeling the dread overcome him already. "Black Betty…?"

His co-worked and forever tormenter smiled from across the aisle. "Yes, according to the other witnesses in the park, she is a Hell's Heaven."

"Hell's Angel," McGee corrected with a dead serious tone, entirely engrossed by his computer screen. He didn't even try to shoot that one in Tony's face.

"You like biker girls, don't you, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked.

"Sure do, boss," he lied with a forcibly fake grin and pulled the file closer to him. Betty Jenkins looked like a two hundred pound, forty-six-year-old woman with bad acne and a maniacal hair stylist.

"Good," his boss replied, sitting down in his chair. Then he lapsed into his silent mode, which was typically of him during his rare periods of deskwork. Tony had been anxiously waiting for him to leave again. Now he had no choice but to get by the bear in the photograph on his desk.

His eyes flickered up, and saw Ziva staring at him. "Going to tell me how I deserve this, Ziva? Break out one more maniacal pun before I'm shipped off to my doom? It just wouldn't be the same without you."

"Well, Tony, I would if I wasn't trying to do my job," she replied.

"Which is exactly what you should be doing, DiNozzo."

Tony jumped at the unexpected comment from his boss and got out of his chair. "On it, boss," he said quickly, picking up the first page from the witness folder, gathering his usual equipment and heading towards the elevator. Once inside, he let out a long sigh, glanced down at the photo again, and grimaced.

Tony covered his face with one hand, feeling the horror overcome him…

* * *

-

_Palmer lay, half-sprawled and tangled on the floor with his palms flat under him. He gaped over his shoulder at the sight…_

The only brightness inside the autopsy room was credited to the overhanging light, illuminating the torso of their most recent visitor. Ducky's mood was the opposite. Understanding the mind of killers, or at least being able to identify them, certainly made undressing and mutilating the remains of their victims even harder. Especially when it came to young women like this petty officer. Jethro had been right—there was no equality with chivalrous men like himself, and the dour Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. It was times like these that he regretting knowing as much as he did.

Jimmy Palmer, his assistant, understood this much of his mentor and kept silent for the most part. They had already cleaned most of the blood and discovered clear evidence that the scarring on her abdomen was not all brand new. Some of it had healed. At least a few weeks of healing had allowed some old wounds to close, and fresh ones had been added. This woman was tortured to death. In the middle of Theatre Park.

Their quiet assortment of tasks flew by, and the autopsy was now lingering in front of them. Palmer had just retrieved the autopsy tools from their drawer and Ducky had only just picked one up, when he heard something that was not typically heard in a morgue: a faint beeping sound, like that of a micro-oven or a wristwatch. Furling his brow, he looked around, but couldn't pinpoint its location.

"Mister Palmer, are you wearing a watch?" Ducky cast a narrowed glance at his assistant, stumped as to where the sound was coming from.

The young examiner-in-training froze, as he usually did hen confronted by unexpected questions from his usually talkative counterpart. "N-No," he replied slowly. "We're not allowed…to…"

"Then where on Earth is that noise coming—" The good doctor paused, scalpel raised in hand slightly. He turned around. "Do you hear that?"

"I…don't hear anything," said Jimmy. The autopsy room was flooded by silence. They exchanged glances, looked at the body, which was naturally not uttering so much as a decimal of sound.

"Clearly, I must be more worn-out than I realize." Ducky chuckled half-heartedly and set the scalpel down in the tray with the remaining tools. He had only need to put on a pair of laytex and they could begin this grueling task. It would not be long at all before Jethro came downstairs looking for an answer or two, and rarely had he let the stalwart man down in their decade and more of experience together.

Preparation for the autopsy went as usual, as Jimmy was already adorned for the task. Ducky returned to the smooth metal sporting a mask and the proper gloves. He was about to ask Mr. Palmer to check the time, when he heard that peculiar beeping again; this time, louder.

"Wait, do you hear that?" Jimmy asked this time. Now it was apparent the sound wasn't a trick of an aging mind—this was quite real, and quite invisible.

"Yes, Mr. Palmer, I do." Ducky moved towards the table and the body, the only one of the pair to recognize the source. The beeping stopped a moment later, but the examiner's eyes were fixed on the soft, red light flickering, just barely visible under the freshly washed skin of the young Amy's abdomen. Ducky backed away a few, stiff paces. Mr. Palmer's back was turned now, he not realize just yet what was happening.

"Yeah, I hear it now. Did someone leave their cell ph—" As the young man turned back to face the table, he saw the look on the examiner's face. "Are you okay, Dr. Mallard?"

Ducky glanced up, "Get down, Mr. Palmer!"

Yet Jimmy, who was nearly three body-lengths away from the victim's body barely had a moment to comprehend the warning when an ear-splitting eruption filled the room. His slight frame was thrown clear off the ground and several yards through the air. The heat of the initial explosion faded after what seemed like forever, leaving him with a severely ringing head, stabbing pains in his chest and the feeling of something wet on his face.

Palmer lay, half-sprawled and tangled on the floor with his palms flat under him. He gaped over his shoulder at the sight of what used to be a cadaver and an autopsy table. It was nothing more than a hunk of metal with a charred hole in it. Smoke billowed everywhere, and worst of all, he could not see Dr. Mallard.

He couldn't see Dr. Mallard. Or hear him. Coughing, Jimmy tried to push up on one of his arms, but the agony in his ribs felled him like a kick to the head.

With a groan, he just managed to roll over onto his back when the edges of his vision darkened. Then he was out.

* * *

-

_Smoke masked almost everything in sight, but Gibbs, for one of the few times in his lifetime, felt true terror sink into his heart…_

He came back and the office was half-empty. Fifteen minutes to drive to Betty Jenkin's apartment only to find out that she no longer lived in said apartment, and fifteen minutes of silently celebrating to himself later, DiNozzo was back at his desk. Well, standing in front of it. The only one here was McGee; Ziva and Gibbs were gone. Gibbs he expected. But where was elusive little Ziva David…?

Black Betty had taken most of her stuff from her place and told the superintendent that she was leaving for good. 'Stuff' pretty much meant her keys, wallet, a packet of cigarettes, a few CDs, her old-fashioned CD player, and not much else. She had moved out in a hurry, leaving everything else behind. He supposed if she had been a witness at the crime this morning, she didn't meant to be. He smelled a suspect.

"Hello, McGee," he greeted, sitting down in his chair. "I got a job for you, little buddy."

"Kinda busy, Tony," the robotic reply came. His teammate was very fixed on whatever computerized task he was given. That wasn't going to stop Tony, of course.

"Turns out our Hell's Angel has flown the coop, just a few days ago. I don't suppose you could do something magical and find out where she lives, so Gibbs doesn't disembowel me. I'd really appreciate it."

There was a significant pause. McGee wasn't even listening. Then:

"Uh oh."

It was a simple enough statement that needed no further explanation, but Tony had to ask anyway. After all, this was McGeek speaking. It had to be something good. Well, bad…but good.

"What's the matter, McGoo?" he asked, springing lightly out of his chair and gliding over to the other desk.

McGee made an annoyed wince and glanced over his shoulder at DiNozzo. "Go away, Tony. This is serious. I think I may have accidentally…"

His would-be tormentor's eyebrow perked. "Accidentally what, McGuinness?"

There came a troubled pause after that. McGee's fingers stopped typing for a moment before he reluctantly replied, "…hacked into Abby's computer."

That would have been enough to attract even Gibb's attention, had he been present to hear it. He was, in fact. Their boss was just arriving at their little workspace with Ziva in tow, the latter casting a narrowed look over her two male associates. She could smell trouble. They reeked of it. And Gibbs was not blind—a moment later, both the former member of Mossad and the special agent were standing in front of McGee's desk with varied intensity in their gazes.

"Did you just say 'accidentally' hacked, McGee?" Gibbs demanded firmly, leaning over.

"Uhhhh…" McGee was too bus furiously drumming at his keyboard to form an immediate answer to that. His screen was going crazy with randomly selected files and he was losing them all. "Somehow, yes, I think…my computer has a Trojan that's systematically locating and deleting evidence from her hardrive, yes…"

"Well, put a stop to it!" Gibbs slapped the back of the monitor angrily. Even Tony shut his mouth, gouging the extreme weight of the situation.

"I don't know how…this is even—" Every time he tracked it down, it loaded up another program and its associated files, extinguishing them before he could lock on. "I can't! It's too fast for my—"

His screen went black; the lights on his CPU died. For a moment, McGee just stared at the dark panel, mouth slightly agape. When he finally turned his head to look up, he saw Gibbs stand up straight with his computer's power cord in hand. Gibbs then dropped it on the floor. "How about now?"

"You can't hack into Abby's computer from here, can you?" Tony asked, before the storm could take place. "That just doesn't sound…"

"It was a malicious program designed to use my algorithms to hack into the NCIS evidence records, which are conveniently linked to Abby's hardrive, Tony," McGee told him quickly. His heart was still beating furiously and his head was swimming with the suddenness of the attack. "But there's no way a virus could have…I've never seen something jump around like that."

"What did you lose, McGee?" is what Gibbs would have asked then. Ziva's mouth was opened partially, as though to remark on the situation. But a slight tremor in the floor and the muffled sound of something violent erupting under their feet seized them. It only lasted a few seconds, but the effect was instantaneous.

Everyone in the office felt it, as though it had been an earthquake that just didn't happen in D.C. The air was cut with startled comments, but Gibbs's team felt frozen to the Earth. After a few short seconds, the surprised silence was broken by Tony.

"Boss…what was that?"

Gibbs already felt the cold dread crawling up his spine. "I know what it sounded like," he said through half-gritted teeth as he pushed back from the desk. One glance around at the faces of his agents, and he knew they'd clued in. Dread just wasn't something he wanted to deal with right now. Over the chatter of the office, said, "Ziva…with me. DiNozzo, McGee, stay here. Fix this virus thing."

"But—"

"That's an order, McGee."

Right about then, all four sets of eyes witnessed as a pair of security guards rushed past the cubicles and desks halfway across the room and disappeared through a door marked with an 'Exit' sign. Without another word, Gibbs grabbed Ziva with a look, and they both sprinted for the stairwell.

Gibbs was dragging about then thousand pounds of bad air with him. The dusky gray walls of the stairwell blurred together as he raced to the basement level of the building. Even through the window to the autopsy corridor showed no sign of wreckage or disaster, his very accurate experience told him that the unquestionable explosion had happened further in. His crime-confident brain had already figured out how a bomb could have reached the inside of his jurisdiction. It was pounding inside of his chest, and he was incapable of giving himself the hope that it had somehow, been in some way, someone else's fault but his.

But that's not how it was.

Both he and Ziva drew their guns after they burst through the stairwell door and into the pristine hallway. The security guards had already opened the door to the autopsy room, and smoke was flowing out in a hazy river. He had to swallow down the lump in his throat as, per procedure, Gibbs signaled to them both and assigned them to cover duty. He held his breath and moved into the devastated room.

He didn't see either of the bodies yet, or evidence that they were alive. He stepped in further, with Ziva close behind. She turned and circled around the first table, keep her gun trained on the obvious source of the explosion. They were silent, in the event this was an intrusion…but then they both spotted the first victim lying on his back, several yards away.

Smoke masked almost everything in sight, but Gibbs, for one of the few times in his lifetime, felt true terror sink into his heart…

--

TBC


	2. The Lockdown

_**Imperfect Men**_

_**-  
**_

AN: Sorry this took so long. -_-

* * *

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Chapter Two: The Lockdown

-

Coffee didn't taste like it should.

Gibbs ignored the rapidly cooling Styrofoam cup, sitting so unappealingly on the corner of the small tray beside him. He didn't need coffee. This was a hospital; knowing why he came here and just how long he'd be staying was enough to keep him alert. Thinking about yesterday's kick-in-the-gut reality kept him awake; caffeine was redundant. Watching Abby get to the scene, groggy-eyed and confused, just in time to see paramedics pull Ducky's stretcher into the ambulance…so the last thing Gibbs needed right now was coffee. What he really needed, he couldn't get. Not yet.

He stared intensely at the occupant of the hospital bed. The rise and fall of Ducky's chest didn't quite time up with the beeping of the heart rate monitor, and the pale yellow glow of the room in mid-afternoon light got on his nerves. Outside it was a beautiful day. Right here, right now, inside this room, it was bleak. He'd seen so many hideous things, but since he entered the room and sat down on the vinyl chair, he couldn't take his eyes of the ugliest sight of all. A good friend, in a coma.

Once or twice, he had started to apologize, and even though he knew it was appropriate, he just couldn't make himself finish the words. 'Sorry' didn't cover the mistake he'd made—a mistake that had nearly cost Ducky and Palmer their lives. He knew Palmer at least wouldn't hear the same out of his right ear.

Doctors made it clear that Duck's condition was unpredictable. With the number of burns to his arms and body, fractured bones and head trauma, they estimated that it would take weeks at least, not days for him to wake up. Then there was always the possibility that he wouldn't open his eyes. Given the circumstances, Gibbs wouldn't blame him if he never did.

Director Sheppard shut the NCIS complex down for twenty-four hours for a security intervention, to ensure that the incident had not been the work of terrorists, amongst other reasons. Only special personnel were given admittance to the building, and the investigation of Petty Officer Amy Simpson's murder was put on hold. Officially. Unofficially, Gibbs doubted the President could have ordered a complete halt to the case. Nor would he have allowed it. Jenny knew that, of course. She'd even told him that she would do anything within her power to help his team find out who put the bomb inside Simpson's body.

Gibbs finally turned to glance at the clock on the wall. He'd sent DiNozzo to wait outside thirty minutes ago. He numbly dragged his fingers through his hair and stood up. For a long minute, he stared at Ducky's face, listened to the characteristic blipping of the heart monitor, and allowed his carefully concealed anger to broil. Then he faced away from the bed, opened the room's door and entered the hallway.

DiNozzo still stood where he'd left him. Immediately, Gibbs was thrown an expression that asked the question of the hour..

Rather than giving the usual report, Gibbs slowly stepped up to the younger agent and looked at him meaningfully. "If anything happens, DiNozzo…anything. You call me. Is that understood?"

Tony blinked at him, but was no less honest when he replied. "Yeah, boss."

It was a guarded answer, short and precise. They both knew that if one of them had a shred of evidence to work with right now, they would be knocking down doors and performing whatever (legal or illegal) action they needed to bring down the one responsible. Without another word, Gibbs stepped around DiNozzo and walked briskly down the beige corridor.

He didn't make it far. He reached the ICU's waiting area and found a familiar wet-eyed faced standing right in front of him, her arms crossed and hair falling out of its pigtails.

"Gibbs!" she cried, or would have if her voice hadn't been hoarse from (quite possibly many hours of) trying to stay calm.

"Abby, I told you to go back home. Three hours ago," said Gibbs, stopping to point towards the hospital's exit. "This time it's an order. Go home."

"How is he, Gibbs? Did he say anything? Didn't he at least blink or nod, or sigh, or—" The young forensic expert babbled, ignoring everything he had just said. An overtired, immensely distraught Abby weighed down by the burden of helplessness was not an easy person to dismiss. "They say that people in comas can hear everything that's around them, and maybe he's trying to talk to us, because really Gibbs, he's okay, and Ducky's probably really worried that we're worrying about him, so someone has to go in there and tell him that we'll be just fine—

"Abby."

Her rant came to a screeching halt as Gibbs placed his hands on her upper arms, in an effort to make her focus. "Get some rest. I need you at NCIS tomorrow, finding out everything you can about that bomb."

She blinked at him, as though absorbing the importance of his words, and finally nodded her head. "Okay, Gibbs. I'm…going to turn around, and leave. Promise me I'm the first one you'll call if something good…or bad…happens!"

"Abby…"

"Promise! C'mon, am I really asking that much, Gibbs?"

He focused his grip and turned her body around. "I promise," he said firmly, and gave her a gentle push. "Now, go home."

Gibbs watched her wander to the elevator doors and push the 'down' button. When she finally vanished and the door closed behind her, he turned to the door on his left that lead to the public stairway. He didn't hurry down the steps in the event he might run into Abby again, but cut through the small crown in the lobby of the hospital to reach the main entrance. For a long minute, he stood at the window and gazed at the faces of the people passing by on the street. Then he caught a glimpse of the face he was looking for.

Jethro passed through the first set of doors of the vestibule and exited onto the sidewalk. A dozen paces to the unmarked car parked at an unused meter, and he opened the door to duck into the driver's seat.

"Tell me you found her, David," he said to the passenger, without glancing over. He turned the key in the ignition and let the engine hum to life. Using Ziva's last name was an indication of the mood he was in.

"Betty Jenkins left D.C. with three other members of her motorcycle gang three days ago, and returned the same night of Simpson's murder," Ziva explained in return, locking her eyes on his face. "Since then she has not returned home, or contacted any of her friends or family. The only lead I found was with her cousin, Marian Seymour. She's a dentist on the east side of town, at this address." She handed him the bottom half of a notepad. A badly written house address was scrawled there, in handwriting he didn't recognize. "Her mother gave that to me. She also volunteered herself to be a witness should this 'go to trial'."

"Witness." Gibbs' voice was on the verge of snapping into a frustrated growl. He looked at her. "How can she be a witness to a murder she wasn't even there to see?"

"Not for Petty Officer Simpson. Apparently, 'Black Betty' is in the habit of breaking the law in her own ways. Her family doesn't seem impressed."

"And _no one_ knows where this woman is?" he demanded, putting his hands on the wheel.

"I was hoping we could ask Mrs. Seymour that same question." Ziva's eyes had a dark, pressing gleam behind them. "Unless that isn't all right with you, Agent Gibbs?"

"Like hell it isn't," he growled, turned the steering wheel and launching the vehicle into mid-afternoon traffic.

* * *

-

This wasn't a meat puzzle. It was trying to turn jam back into strawberries.

Before Jimmy Palmer lay the largest pieces of Petty Officer Simpson's remains. Some were the size of his fist, a few were still intact, like part of the trapezeous muscles and a segment of her skull, and a few dozen were in pieces no bigger than his thumb…including her thumbs. The rest lay in shallow glass trays, hardly more than paste mixed with bone shards, glass and drying tissue and blood. All of it was evidence. But not a single piece told him more about this case than the constant ringing in his ear.

He had suffered nothing broken—just bruised and scraped. He had a slight burned on his right cheek and his eardrum had shattered, but after a few hours at the hospital and a few thousand milligrams of ibuprofen, and he was allowed to come to work inside the NCIS complex. He was both a witness and an assistant ME. And if Director Sheppard hadn't stretched the rules to let him in, he wouldn't be staring at a 3D puzzle with no end.

Five meters. That was all that was between him and Dr. Mallard when the bomb went off. It was powerful enough to throw him off his feet and…severely injure Dr. Mallard—even liquefy some of the body's remains, but somehow he'd been the one lucky enough to be left standing here. And Dr. Mallard wasn't.

Thirty minutes ago, he'd hunched over the silver table and started to pick pieces of plastic and metal out of scarce pieces of burnt tissue, but nothing here was big enough to give to Abby…when she got back, that was. He was alone. He didn't know what to look for. Why had the Director called him back here rather than an ME who knew something about this kind of thing? All this work with no one to talk to…

And there, underlying all of his other complains, was a sickening thought. Palmer realized there was moisture tickling the side of his nose. He tore off one glove and touched his face, expecting to see some of the victim's blood come away, but the liquid was clear.

So the fact that Dr. Mallard wasn't coming back soon, and might not return at all, had occurred to him. Something about working with a jam puzzle made him forget how horrible he felt inside.

This was one screw-up he would never forgive himself for.

* * *

-

Trees surrounded the tiny glade that overhung Marian Seymour's house. It was that kind of house that they put into commercials—pretty, white, with old-fashioned glue-on shutters and a paved driveway. Perfect lawn and a professionally grown garden brimming with lush purples and whites every good house owner should have. There was a red truck parked in the driveway. Ziva took one glance at its license plate and an alarm went off in her head.

"Agent Gibbs," she said, as they both closed their doors behind them and stood on the pavement. She nodded very gently towards the vehicle.

It was the truck they'd put the BOLO out for. The one at Theater Park.

Ziva stuck close to Gibbs' back as they climbed the driveway to the porch of Marian's house. Gibbs opened the screen door and knocked a few times, while his counterpart stayed back a step or two and peered guiltlessly into the cracks between the curtains of their would-be host's curtains.

They waited a dozen seconds before Gibbs knocked again—harder this time. Then the door opened, and a slightly hunched over old woman appeared, with a light blue cardigan and extravagant earrings in both her lobes. She blinked up at them.

"Hello..?" she said meekly, looking between the two. "Can I help you…?"

Expecting some kind of explanation, Gibbs glanced over at Ziva as she stepped up beside him. She smiled politely. "My name is Officer David, and this is Special Agent Gibbs. We're from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. We're looking for Marian Seymour…are you her?"

For a moment, the senior regarded them with doubtful surprise. "Of course not," she said, less accusingly than matter-of-factly. "Marian is my daughter. Are you telling me she…did something wrong? Marian is a good girl."

"We're not here to blame anyone for anything, Mrs. Seymour," Gibbs informed her patiently. "We just need to ask her some questions about a family member of yours."

Mrs. Seymour frowned as she put a hand on her wooden door. "Marian's at work right now. Don't you two have badges or some kind of hoo-haw like that you're supposed to show me?"

Both agents of the federal investigative service were halfway to reaching for their badges (which were logically supposed to be back at NCIS, had there been no lockdown), when Gibbs' cell phone went off. Ziva procured her badge and displayed it for the skeptical older woman while the Special Agent flipped open his phone and turned away to answer it.

"What is it, McGee?" he said.

There was an evident pause on the other end of the line. A pinprick went through Gibbs' chest. "McGee," he repeated, louder.

"Boss," came a voice edged with a little panic and disbelief. But it was McGee, and not what Gibbs had jumped to suspect. "Uh, I know this is going to sound a bit crazy, but…there's a body in front of my door."

Ice ran through his veins. "A _dead_ one, McGee?"

"Y-Yeah," the reply came. "I think…it looks a lot like Petty Officer Simpson."

That was what dispatched Gibbs into full alert mode. "McGee, you are _not_ to go anywhere _near_ that door. Is that understood? Go to a room as far away from that door as you can. And whatever happens, _do not answer it_ for anyone but me."

Gibbs snapped the phone shut before he could get positive answer from the other end, because he needed to make another phone call. Now. He punched in the number, ignoring Officer David's and Mrs. Seymour's surprised looks.

"Rain check," he told Ziva as he marched back onto the driveway, her only steps behind him.

"What was that about?"

Gibbs clutched the cell phone, knuckles tightening against his jaw as he continued to walk. "They're targeting us."

* * *

TBC


	3. The Repeat

_**Imperfect Men**_

_**-  
**_

AN: Oops, forgot the italics last chapter. (remembers to add them this chapter)

I am smrt.

* * *

-

Chapter Three: The Repeat

-

_Gibbs' coughed as smoke from the burning wreckage filled his lungs. Then he froze when he saw McGee sprawled on the ground just meters away._

The newest body drop was in fact, another case exactly like Petty Officer Simpson. Only this time the young man was a former Chief Petty Officer who had faithfully resigned after an injury to his hand three years ago. Gibbs arrived at McGee's apartment building just in time to stop a sixty-eight –year-old man from checking the pulse of the unfortunate cadaver. Whoever had dropped the Chief Petty Officer in front of Tim's door, they had done it quietly and managed to escape without any detection.

McGee himself was fine. Once the specialists had located and removed the explosive device inside Officer Caldwell's stomach and turned the body over to NCIS (or rather, a replacement ME, called in by Jenny on short notice), Tim was shaken, but not so overwhelmed he couldn't do his job. Gibbs watched the chief's corpse being carted away on the gurney and turned his eyes to the MIT graduate.

"How does a person walk into a building without buzzing any of the tenants, carrying a dead man with a bomb inside his stomach, _put_ him down on the floor inside this hallway, and not get seen?" he asked rhetorically.

But McGee didn't know that. "I'm not sure, boss…I suppose no one was around. Superintendant says no one called him, so my best guess is…"

"An inside job."

Both men turned to Ziva, who returned the look with genuine obliviousness. "What? It would explain how the killer got inside, and why no one thought he was a stranger. It is possible he could live next door to McGee and we wouldn't know."

"What you're saying is that this psychotic killer who plants bombs inside peoples' dead bodies is a _neighbor_ of McGee's?" Gibbs questioned incredulously. He placed a hand over his eyes for a moment and thought. "Ziva, if this is your theory, interview every single one of the residents that live here and dig for connections with the Hell's Angels or past relations with NCIS. "

"But, boss, there are over sixty people living here—" Tim stopped the moment Gibbs glared at him. He shut his mouth.

"Would you care to join her, McGee?"

"Well, no…I mean, yes...but I'm guessing that you have…other plans for me."

"Providence Hospital, Northeast Brooklyn. Tell DiNozzo to contact me the instant he steps out of that building. Jenkins was his responsibility; he can clean up this mess."

"On it, boss." Tim made a wipe step around their team leader and began to head for the elevator.

"McGee."

He froze, and turned around. Gibbs raised his brow at him. "You forgot to lock your door."

The MIT graduate looked at his apartment door, still slightly ajar and (obviously) unlocked. He hastily dug his keychain from his pocket and went to fix that problem. Gibbs and Ziva exchanged a glance and with a nod from the graying special agent, they pushed past him. Tim managed to jiggle his keys free just in time to catch the elevator door before it shut him out. His expression was somewhat dour, but somehow it was unsurprising that neither one of them thought to hold the 'open' button for him.

It was just a shade of normality. He tossed that notion around his head for a few seconds, and then decided against using it in his next novel. It seemed wrong that anything good, big or small, should come out of a day so wrought with peril.

He winced. Yeah, he needed to stop thinking like a writer.

When the trio reached street level, paramedics were hoisting the gurney with Caldwell's body into the back of the medical examiner's truck. They would deliver it to NCIS, but only the ME himself would go inside and prepare the body for tomorrow's autopsy. This time, a metal detector had been taken to the entire corpse, followed by a couple of other scans Gibbs forgot the name of. There was no way an incident like this morning would happen again. It had only been seven hours since then—he'd be damned if there were two tragedies like that on the same day. He'd be damned if there was two, period.

As a matter of fact, he was already damned.

Jethro reached down to open his car door and was stopped by McGee's voice.

"So, if it's Tony's job to find Betty Jenkins, then I guess you want me to—

"Watch Ducky." Their eyes met for a second, and Tim looked away grimly. "I'm sure you'll know what to do if anything changes." A moment later, just as the younger turned to leave, he added, "Agents Sarah and McGully will be with you from now on. And McGee…"

"Yes, boss?"

Gibbs paused, then nodded. "Good job." He pulled on the handle and stooped into the driver's seat. The expression Ziva shot him was either professional approval, or respect, or both. He brushed it aside. He didn't need any thanks for encouraging one of his own people after one more brush with death.

He pulled out his keys.

And was thrown forward in his seat as their car violently jolted, rear-ended by the parked vehicle behind them. Jethro's head smashed against the steering wheel, dazing him with pain and surprise, the keys in his hand flinging to the floor. A deafening roar split his senses apart. By the time he realized that it was McGee's car that had just exploded two spots behind them, it was too late to do anything about it.

After a moment of disorientation, he slammed his shoulder into the door as he clutched the handle, and stumbled back into the street. Some people were still hiding from the smoking debris while others were running towards it. His heart pounded against his ribs. He waved the smoke out of his face and yelled, "McGee!"

Gibbs' coughed as smoke from the burning wreckage filled his lungs. Then he froze when he saw McGee sprawled on the ground just meters away from what used to be his car.

* * *

-

_Jenny gazed at the young man's face as a sense of dread washed over her body._

"Ow."

Still holding an ice pack to her bruised shoulder, Ziva smirked at the patient sitting on the back of the ambulance in front of her. A paramedic was cleaning the blood away from a gash on his forehead, and wasn't being as gentle as he so clearly needed.

McGee's annoyed complaint was only the many of dozen since he'd been picked up off the street and dusted off. Whoever had tried to blow him up had either decided to scare him instead, or had a terrible sense of timing. Tim winced as another fresh gauze was applied to the scrapes on his cheek by the older lady.

"Come on, McGee. A couple of scratches like that will only leave scars, and I have heard great things about men with old wounds." Officer David smirked at him.

"Could you remind me again, when exactly you and Tony traded places? Ow." He sucked air in through his teeth.

"You should be glad you're alive, McGee." Gibbs approached them, having finished his phone conversation with the director of NCIS. There was an obvious lump growing on his forehead. "Considering how much trouble someone went through to try and kill you."

"I wasn't implying that," the defensive reply came. "Just wondering what ever happened to a little thing called 'bedside manner'."

"I see no bed," said Ziva, feigning innocence. "Therefore, that rule does not apply here."

"If he'd hit his head just a little bit harder, you'd be singing a different song, young lady," the paramedic interrupted. Her faintly lined face was humourless. She finally stopped treating McGee's superficial wounds and began to pack up her supplies. "Some minor contusions and a bit of grazed skin is one of the best scenarios I've ever seen on a person standing that close to an exploding Chevy."

"It was a Porsche." That was a half-mumbled. Tim was already aware that no one cared if he drove a Boxer or not.

"Gibbs." Ziva took a step away, looking at the retreating back of their team leader. Jethro didn't stop to answer her, but paused just before getting into the Charger (which had been thoroughly inspected for more explosives).

"Change of plans. David, you go to Providence with McGee. And for God's sake, don't…drive under any bridges or near any…you know, bomb factories. And _don't leave_ the hospital."

"Understood, boss."

Ziva didn't say anything. She watched Gibbs start up the car, pull out of the parking space and into the blocked off lane. Police officers parted to let him rejoin the mainstream of traffic, and her eyes didn't leave the taillights until they turned a corner. He was going somewhere without them, which usually meant one of two things; either he was doing something not entirely legal, or he was going to talk to Director Sheppard in person.

Either one had its dangers.

---

"It was a set up, Jennifer."

The doors for Director Sheppard's office flung open and Leroy Jethro Gibbs stormed towards her with an all-too familiar gait, one that she read and immediately knew that this conversation was going to be like beating her head against a brick wall.

"Special Agent Gibbs," she remarked, looking back to the papers on her desk. She intently used his title just to make it clear she didn't like being called 'Jennifer' by anyone, least of all him. "Come on in. My office is your living room, after all."

"Somebody _killed_ that petty officer for one reason: to make me think one of my people was about to be body-bombed, when suddenly there's a _real _bomb strapped to his car outside. Outside the crime scene." Jethro stabbed the top of her desk with an index finger and leaned over. "A court martial isn't staring to look so bad if I'm going to catch this bastard. _Before_ every last one of my agents is lying on slabs. This investigation needs to be officially opened, today."

"Taking this a bit personally, aren't you, Jethro?" She regarded him with a short glance upwards. "Yes, the personnel here at NCIS are being targeted by a homicidal sociopath out for federal blood, but what makes you so convinced that their after _you_? Dr. Mallard and Agent—"

"Ducky is in a hospital hooked up to _machines_ in order to keep him alive, Jenny!" Gibbs stood up again, but curbed his temper. He lowered his voice. "That almost happened to McGee not seven hours after they put him in an ambulance. Did I mention innocent people's lives are being used as tools against NCIS?"

"I am aware of that!" Her voice became sharp and forceful. Finally, she stood up to challenge him. "If it were well within my power, I would have every last willing employee, right down to Ted the janitor covering this investigation, but it is against federal _law_ to allow those personnel into this building while it is still in lockdown. Do you have any idea how many strings I pulled just to get Palmer inside that Autopsy room? Just overlooking the fact that you're still treating witnesses like they're under legal obligation exceeds my level of command."

"And whose command would that be?"

"The President of the United States, Jethro. Should I phone him and tell him how unhappy you are with his policies?"

For a moment, Gibbs was perfectly quiet. He placed a hand on his chin and sat down heavily in a chair across from her desk. This news was new, and not welcome.

"In the event of a possible terrorist threat against a federal agency, at least twenty-four hours of lockdown has to be made into effect before world according to Leroy Gibbs keeps spinning." Jenny also sat down, with about as much resignation in her posture as his. "The only one in this country that can break this lockdown is him. So for now you'll have to make do with daisies instead of roses."

The new, quiet Gibbs processed this information by staring at the front of her desk. It was chillingly silent inside the NCIS headquarters, with no one but a handful of people scattered through its bowels. After half a minute of silence, he rose out of his chair again and looked down at her. Meaningfully. "I have to protect them, Jenny."

"So do I, Jethro. You just have to trust them. Their first line of defense is their own ability to judge the situation they're in, and react."

"That's exactly my point," said Gibbs, voice raising only slightly higher than normal. Loud enough for someone eavesdropping to overhear. "So where was Ducky's protection? Which one of us was supposed to watch his back before a bomb went off under his nose? "

Jenny Sheppard was now gazing at the door to her office. Taken off track by that interruption, Gibbs turned around and saw Jimmy Palmer standing in the open doorway, still outside but looking rather dazed and, not surprisingly, wounded. He was still dressed in his work scrubs, though they had obviously been changed recently due to the minimal amount of blood on them.

"H-Hi…" He looked between them both, as though ready to bolt at any second. "Sorry, I just…Director Sheppard told me to report directly to her office when I found something. Am I…interrupting?"

Jenny softened with the realization of just how brazen Gibbs had sounded and the position Palmer was in. "No, Jimmy. It's okay. Agent Gibbs was just about to leave."

"Damn right I am." Jethro strode away from her desk and brushed past the younger man. "Keep up the good work, Palmer." And in a matter of seconds, he had vanished down the stairs.

Palmer slowly ventured into the room, glancing around. Having never visited this office before, combined with the awkwardness of the moment, he obviously didn't feel like being here right now. She didn't blame him in the slightest.

"Director, I did…find something," he said, stopping a healthy distance away from her. "But, it's…not something you probably want to…hear."

Jenny gazed at the young man's face as a sense of dread washed over her body.

* * *

TBC


	4. The Message

**_Imperfect Men_**

**_-  
_**

AN: Why is McGee the only one in total fear of disobeying Gibbs?

* * *

-

Chapter Four: The Message

-

_Abby was gazing into the hospital room with her arms wrapped tightly around her body and her face wrought with pain._

The ICU was barren of hospital patients and personnel. A few nurses passed them on their way to Ducky's room, ignoring their well-dressed visitors and making no effort to direct them to where they needed to go. Somehow McGee and Ziva managed to find the only open door on the second floor of the building and discover Tony inside, sitting in the vinyl chair that was now placed next to the bed rather than across from it.

Tim had to pause in the doorway and do a mental double-take. When he saw the bandages on Dr. Mallard's arms, the life support tubes draped over his body, the IV drip and scattered welts on his face, he finally figured out why Gibbs was being Angry Gibbs . Another three or four seconds, and McGee presumed that he would be lying on that bed next to Ducky, or on the autopsy table next to Chief Petty Officer Caldwell.

He'd half-expected to find Tony sitting slouched in his chair, fast asleep and maybe even drooling . Instead, Agent DiNozzo leaned into the wall with his head tilted back, staring into space. That didn't stop him from noticing Ziva, of course.

"Hey there, munchkins," he said softly, continuing his game of Stare-At-Nothing. "Heard from Abby you had an accident, Probie."

Tim frowned, then pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch. "That was…almost an hour and fifteen minutes ago, Tony. How exactly did Abby find out?"

"Gibbs told the Director, the Director called everyone whose last names end with letter J through Z, and well…Abby's been lurking around ever since Gibbs told her to go home. And oh, yeah…welcome to the Club of Men Whose Cars Have Been Blown Up in the Line of Duty."

"Thank you, Tony. So glad to be a member of the C.M.W.C…H…"

"B.B.U.L.D." DiNozzo finished for him with a slight grimace.

"If I am not mistaken, Tony, you sound as though you put a lot of thought into that." Ziva looked down at him accusingly.

"Yeah, I'm really, _really_ bored." DiNozzo then threw himself forward and let all four legs of the chair touch the ground. "So, what are we dealing with?"

"That is hard to say," she replied truthfully. "It seems every time we come close to following a lead, something occurs halfway across the city to put us off the path."

"That's the 'trail', Ziva, and while that is very interesting information, I wasn't referring to the investigation. I was talking about Gibbs. I'd like to know which Godzilla is loose in the streets of Washington, D.C: Angry Gibbs, Homicidal Gibbs, Grumpy Gibbs? "

"All three, actually," Tim added to the banter. He was rewarded by a hard glare from the former Mossad agent. "What? I'm only agreeing with him."

Yet her irritation was not as comical as it was genuine, and it began to flare into her 'get-things-done' training—which as both men knew, was more than just training, and bordered on dangerous, personal overdrive. "Look at Ducky," she cut sharply, extending her hand towards the comatose Scotsman. "That is not you, McGee. He is not Tony, or Gibbs, or me. That is Ducky. A man who has never once intentionally harmed another living person, and yet he is the one who ended up being the target. Perhaps the two of you have not realized that Gibbs is putting _all _ofthe blame for his condition on his shoulders. Tell me, what do you think will happen if Ducky dies?"

A matching dumbstruck expression usurped both of their faces. McGee looked a little sick. Tony cast his eyes down as that scenario sunk into his skin. Since the first blow this morning, they had all been dodging punches by acting like this was just another normal, everyday case of a serial killer with a vengeance to play out against NCIS. No one wanted to accept that they might have already lost their first battle. But Ziva's punches were hard, and impossible to dodge. They had a job to do.

"I do not intend to stay inside this room while Gibbs is out there chasing down the man or woman responsible for this," she went on mercilessly, while there was no mistaking what 'this' indicated.

"And yet, Gibbs told us to stay here," Tim pointed out, hands in his pocket.

"What Gibbs doesn't know won't hurt him," said DiNozzo. He finally stood up and stretched his arms around his back. "Not only that, but since this isn't an official investigation, and we're not technically on the clock, there's nothing _officially_ he can do to stop us."

"You're worried about what the boss does officially?" McGee raised his brow at him.

He paused. "Good point. Then I guess our only chance for survival is the unlikely case that he spares our lives when he comes to the realization that we're directly disobeying him for the greater good. It's a slim hope, but it'll have to do."

"And," said McGee pointedly. "What about Ducky? And Abby?"

Tony sighed. "Abby's…she's having trouble coming inside the room…I kind of had to stand outside with her when she came around to see how he was doing."

"I will go and talk to her," Ziva offered, glancing at them both before walking past McGee and entering the hallway.

"So tell me, McGee. What exactly do we know about our happy tree friend?"

Rather than asking for an elaboration on that, Tim reached over and pulled another vinyl-backed chair away from the wall and sat down. "Well, for one, he's smart. He managed to predict that I would call Gibbs about the planted body in my hallway. He also knew about my car. The only witness from the park that wasn't interviewed was Betty Jenkins, who happens to be related to Marian Seymour; Gibbs and Ziva were about to track her down when, well, this happened."

"You're forgetting about the guy who hacked into your computer this morning," DiNozzo pointed out. "Coincidence? I think not."

"That is possible," McGee admitted with a nod, breaking the barrier of his own ego. "Which only helps confirm what we already know—someone who's previously been arrested and convicted through a NCIS investigation wants to settle their score. Problem is, we can't access the NCIS mainframe until tomorrow, so…"

"So we find Marian Seymour and get her to spill the beans about Black Betty. Either that, or you could hack into the evidence database from here."

"Yes, with my imaginary laptop in lieu of my real laptop, which is inside my apartment, which is now a crime scene, and…that is very, very illegal, Tony. Bad idea. Bad."

DiNozzo smirked as he strode over to the small tray in the corner of the room. He picked up Gibbs' abandoned coffee cup and sniffed it. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, Probie. Sometimes you gotta take one for the team."

This may have gone on for some time, but a sound directed their attention to the hallway outside Ducky's room. Tony lowered the Styrofoam cup and looked up; McGee followed suit. There stood Ziva, slightly behind and clasping the shoulder of one young forensic scientist. Abby was gazing into the hospital room with her arms wrapped tightly around her body and her face wrought with pain.

* * *

-

Jenny stared at the red letters on the singed piece of paper, as if somehow they would slide around each other and spell out another message. Part of the 'n' in the first line of crimson ink had been scorched off by the effects of the explosion, but that didn't stop her from reading it for the forty-eighth time.

_Thank Gibbs._

"It was inside this metal tube…" Palmer unscrewed the tiny cap off the tube and put the two pieces on her desk. He wore gloves, and this was the chain of evidence as far as the 'unofficial' part of today's pandemonium was concerned. The tube reminded her of a bullet. It might as well have been shot through her chest. "At first, I thought it might be part of the explosive device, but then I remembered that my grandmother used to wear one of these all the time; you're supposed to write a wish on the paper and put it inside, and…" He trailed off, inevitably realizing that he was going off topic.

_Thank Gibbs._

It wasn't the message that bothered her. It was the fact that she couldn't even force herself to be surprised. "Thank you for showing me this, Mr. Palmer," she said quietly. "I'll make sure Abby gets it in the morning, after I make a few phone calls."

The young man sat there for a few seconds, looking a bit nervous. "I'll tell Doctor Xing that it's under my care," she added. Luckily, her hand didn't shake underneath the laytex glove as she quickly signed off on the chart to make the paper trail complete. "And speaking of care, I still don't think it's a good idea that you're down there splitting hairs over that body, Jimmy. For heaven's sake, you barely escaped from this ordeal in one piece. Nine hours later you should be reassuring your loved ones, not making them worry."

Jimmy Palmer flashed a mostly genuine smile, but it was a sad one. "I appreciate that, Director, really…but I don't think anyone can stop worrying until this is over. I'm going to go help Dr. Xing with the second body now…oh, is that okay?"

He was already out of his chair when his inexperience in dealing with more 'top secret, hush hush' matters kicked in. Jenny nodded. "Just remember to keep me informed."

_Thank Gibbs._

When she was alone inside her office for the first time since three o'clock, Director Sheppard closed her eyes and curled her fingers around the piece of paper—solid , legal evidence—and felt it crumple into flakes against her skin.

If anyone was going to bring an end to this, it was Jethro. She couldn't let him fall to a handful of lawyers when the members of his team needed his guidance. She wouldn't let this son of a bitch get any closer to destroying them than he already was.

----

_Gibbs stood there with a frustrated grimace and watched, powerless._

He wasn't too fond of dentists. Ever since his last visit, he had made every possible excuse to avoid going near one. Gibbs took care of his teeth. But he especially didn't like being inside this dentist office in particular. As far as he knew, this woman was a suspect. The fact that she had been at the park at the same time as her cousin, who coincidentally was the one who called in Simpson's body, made his gut ache.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you have an appointment?"

That voice belonged to the obnoxious young lady behind the reception desk. There were no other patients inside the tiny little room; clearly, he was the only one in the city with a reason to be here.

"No, no appointment," he admitted, stepping up to the receptionist. He took out his badge and placed it down, face-up. "I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. Is Dr. Seymour around?"

"Dr. Seymour sees patients by appointment only," the sassy brunette said with a bored sigh. "And I see what they do on those reality T.V. cop shows. Unless you get some kind of papers, you can't come in unless I tell you to, Mr. Special Agent."

Gibbs _really_ hated dentist offices.

He watched the slightly ajar door behind the desk with a keen eye, knowing that his suspect-in-mind was probably in the next room, feeling confident that federal law would keep her safe from an agent like Leroy Jethro Gibbs. But it had been a long, long time since Gibbs had last allowed something as small as legality get in his way of getting the truth out of witnesses. Especially ones tied to the injuries and possible deaths of his team. He leaned over the desk.

"Your boss is standing on the edge of a cliff you don't want to fall off of," he promised the young woman, glancing at her bedazzled nametag. "Because it's a very long way down. I know; I've done it before."

Her blank stare and narrow, blanched cheeks said it all. She didn't make another protest as he leaned back and glared at the open door—and then a flash of movement caught him off guard. All he saw was a glimpse of the figure that streaked past the door, but it was all he needed to identifier the runner: Betty Jenkins.

Gibbs sprinted for the door, flung it away from him and began to chase after the relatively slower-moving gang member as she barreled down the hallway in pursuit of freedom. He almost ran into another a teenage boy who stepped out of another room, stumbled past him and out the door marked with an exit sign.

He reached for his gun, and felt air where it was meant to be—realized in the split of a second that he was unarmed and had nothing to sway Miss Jenkins into surrendering. A couple of dozen yards away, the woman was already astride a junk heap of a motorcycle and turning the keys. Jethro's "Stop!" was drowned out by the small explosion and roar of the engine as it came to life. The bike and the Hell's Angel peeled out of the parking lot and out into the street.

Gibbs stood there with a frustrated grimace and watched, powerless, as his last chance to gain any answers sped away from him at 60 miles per hour.

* * *

-

TBC


End file.
